After Freddie had gone into the Hardware Emporium, Lily decided she would call into school, so she walked up the High Street towards the village green. William Braithwaite was outside the Post Office, leaning his considerable bulk against the door of the red telephone box. William, known locally as ‘Billy Two-Sheds’, was president of the Ragley Shed Society.
‘Good morning, Mr Braithwaite,’ said Lily.
‘G’mornin’, Mrs Feather,’ replied Billy. ‘Ah’m jus’ waitin’ f’our Petunia t’ring.’ It was his weekly call from his sister in Skegness. She rang the Ragley public telephone box at exactly nine o’clock each Saturday. It was a regular routine and villagers tended to avoid using the telephone at that time.
He glanced anxiously at his wristwatch. ‘Y’weren’t wantin’ t’use t’telephone ah ’ope?’
Lily smiled. ‘No thank you. I’m just calling in to school.’
At that moment the phone began to ring and William squeezed through the door.
In The Royal Oak, Ruby Smith had finished her morning’s cleaning. It was a cash-in-hand job and Sheila Bradshaw gave her a brown envelope.
‘’Ere’s y’wages, Ruby,’ she said.
Sheila was a friendly young woman who worked hard and always gave the regulars in the taproom a good view of what was generally regarded as the finest cleavage in Yorkshire. She was confident in the knowledge that no one would dare to ‘try it on’. Don, her giant of a husband, was an ex-wrestler who had appeared at Bridlington Spa under the name of ‘The Silent Assassin’.
‘Thanks, Sheila,’ said Ruby. ‘Ah’m grateful.’ Ruby knew she would now be able to go to the village Pharmacy to buy a small bottle of Delrosa rosehip syrup for half a crown. She knew it contained Vitamin C and she wanted her children to have strong bones and healthy teeth.
‘How’s your Ronnie?’ asked Sheila.
‘Same as usual,’ said Ruby. ‘Daft as a brush. ’E’s feedin’ ’is pigeons. Thinks more o’ them than ’e does of ’is fam’ly.’
‘Ah’m sorry, Ruby,’ said Sheila. ‘Y’deserve better.’
‘Mebbe so, but ’e’s given me five wonderful children. So ah’m blessed.’
Ruby left for the council estate, where her mother, Agnes, was childminding. Meanwhile Sheila stared after her and wondered if she would ever be blessed.
Ronnie Smith was in his shed feeding his pigeons and humming Elvis Presley’s ‘It’s Now or Never’. Ronnie still regarded himself as a ‘Rocker’, a Teddy boy stuck in his own time warp. He had continued to preserve his fifties rock-and-roll image with drainpipe trousers and Brylcreemed hairstyle, greasy and combed into a duck’s tail.
As he fed his pigeons, Ronnie dreamed of owning a motorbike, ideally a Triumph or a Norton 650, but he couldn’t afford it. He had seen girls in leather jackets riding pillion on motorbikes, blonde hair flying in the wind as they roared down the A19 towards York.
‘A bike gives you respect,’ he said out loud, with absolute conviction.
However, the pigeons took no notice … rather like his mother-in-law.
After finishing his work in the Hardware Emporium, Freddie met Rose in Nora’s Coffee Shop. Blasting out on the jukebox was the Beatles ‘From Me to You’.
‘I’d like to buy the LP,’ said Rose as Nora arrived at their table with two coffees. She had heard the conversation.
‘Wose … ah go t’Woolwo’th’s f’my weco’ds.’
‘Woolworth’s?’ queried Rose. She knew Nora was the local aficionado of pop records.
‘Yes, ah buy them Embassy weco’ds for ’alf pwice.’
‘Yes, Nora, but they’re cover versions. I prefer the real thing.’
Nora gave an enigmatic smile. ‘Two fwothy coffees,’ she said and returned to the counter.
I wonder if I’ll ever meet the real thing, she wondered … because, of course, in her thoughts she could pronounce the letter ‘R’.
‘We could go into York one night next week after school,’ suggested Freddie.
‘Maybe,’ said Rose doubtfully. ‘My mother wouldn’t be pleased. She thinks we’re seeing too much of each other and it’s affecting my homework.’
Freddie smiled. ‘My big sister says the same.’
They relaxed with their coffee in their private space, in which life was an adventure and no one else existed.
On Sunday morning Lily was in the choir stalls of St Mary’s prior to the Holy Communion service. Outside on the Morton road Tom was leaning against his Ford Zephyr patrol car when Albert Jenkins arrived in his three-piece suit, complete with watch chain. Albert was a prominent member of the local council and a valued friend to Tom and Lily.
‘How’s it going, Tom? Don’t see much of you these days.’
‘Stuck in an office in Northallerton, Albert,’ said Tom. ‘Nothing special these days, just kids on motorbikes. I’ve got Sergeant Dewhirst dealing with it.’
Tom was in charge of five rural sections, each one with a sergeant. One of them was his old colleague, Harry Dewhirst, now based in Easington. Thirty-two-year-old Harry rode a powerful BSA C15 motorcycle and drove a boxy Morris LD van known as a ‘Black Maria’. As a second-row rugby forward, he was a formidable presence when he toured the local villages.
‘I heard he collared Stan Coe last week for driving under the influence,’ said Albert with a knowing look. There was history between Tom and Stan.
‘Let’s hope he’s learned his lesson,’ said Tom.
‘I saw his black eye,’ added Albert with a grin.
‘Walked into a door, so it was reported,’ said Tom with a straight face.
The church bells began to chime out. Archibald Pike was putting his bell-ringers through their paces.
‘Shall we go in?’ suggested Tom.
‘Where’s Freddie?’ asked Albert as they walked up the gravel path.
‘Doing his homework.’
‘That’s good,’ said Albert.
‘With his girlfriend,’ added Tom with feeling.
Albert kept his thoughts to himself as they reached the church door and Aloysius Pratt issued them each with a hymn book.
It was early evening when Sam parked in Leeds city centre. The four of them were oblivious to the biting wind. It was a happy, carefree time and they walked with the freedom of sixties teenagers up Briggate to a pub that Sam knew well. The road was busy with traffic, but no longer did the familiar tramcars run up and down this popular shopping street. They had gone for scrap a few years ago and many had been sad to see their departure. City centres were changing.
Freddie and Sam were dressed in the fashion of the day, with roll-neck Aran sweaters, donkey jackets and desert boots. Rose had chosen a grey skinny-rib jumper, grey flannel skirt and brown suede shoes. With her white knitted scarf, a matching woollen hat and a red PVC mac, Freddie thought she looked sensational.
Joy had gone for her pseudo-intellectual Beatnik look, with a black turtleneck sweater, tight jeans, a beret and dark glasses. She had been reading the spontaneous prose of literary iconoclast Jack Kerouac, who had introduced the phrase ‘Beat Generation’. Appropriately, her T-shirt proclaimed ‘Beat Poets of America’.
The pub was crowded and a dense pall of cigarette smoke hovered over the heads of the drinkers.
‘First round on me,’ said Sam with a grin. He was aware the money Freddie earned at the Hardware Emporium, with occasional caddying at the local golf course on Sunday mornings, was limited. He slapped a ten shilling note on the bar. Watney’s Red Barrel was two shillings a pint. ‘Two pints of Red Barrel, please, and two halves in straight glasses,’ he said. He knew the barman would not serve women with pint glasses and definitely not glasses with a handle. ‘It’s just not ladylike,’ he had been told on numerous occasions.
With the exception of Freddie, they had all passed their eighteenth birthdays, including Rose a few weeks ago, and were old enough to drink. In any case, the barman didn’t question them and only gave them the merest glance. He had no wish to argue with the two tough-
looking young men, particularly the blond giant.
On the jukebox, Carole King’s ‘It Might As Well Rain Until September’ was playing. Joy and Rose knew all the words and sang along. A few other Beatles fans were propping up the bar with their copycat, mop-top hairstyles.
At seven o’clock they joined the huge queue outside the Odeon Theatre. Rose was excited. She had been a big fan of the Beatles ever since they had appeared on television a year ago singing ‘Love Me Do’. Her father had shouted, ‘Switch off that rubbish!’, whereas her mother had smiled and said she thought they made a refreshing change.
They took their seats in the dress circle and looked around in wonder. The place was packed. It was a capacity audience of 2,500, with a further 8,000 fans filling the pavements outside. Freddie noticed he and Sam were in a minority. Most of the seats were filled by teenage girls.
It was a relatively quiet start to the concert, but the anticipation was building. While they enjoyed the Vernons Girls, the Brook Brothers and the Kestrels harmony group, everyone was waiting for John, Paul, George and Ringo.
The girls began to scream loudly as soon as the Beatles appeared. Twenty-seven ear-splitting minutes of screaming followed, with the result that it was impossible to hear the music. Regardless, Rose and Joy joined in and sang the words of ‘From Me to You’, ‘All My Loving’, ‘Roll Over Beethoven’ and ‘She Loves You’.
They performed ten songs in all, but it was the last one, ‘Twist and Shout’, that created pandemonium. Dozens of girls tried to storm the stage and some of the usherettes were crushed in the seething mass. A few fans threw fluffy toy bears on to the stage for John Lennon’s son. It took a while for Freddie to lead the way through the throng and out into the cold night air.
The girls were flushed with excitement.
Sam pulled a packet of cigarettes out of his pocket. He had spent three shillings and ten pence from his generous weekly allowance on his favourite brand, twenty Churchman’s No. 1 with filter tips. He offered one to Joy, who accepted gladly. Rose refused mainly because she knew Freddie didn’t smoke, but she would have liked one.
Together they crossed the Headrow and walked back to the car. Freddie held Rose’s hand and smiled down at her.
‘Enjoy it?’
‘Terrific,’ said Rose. She reached up and kissed him tenderly.
As the four of them drove home, Rose thought of the fictional characters she had read about who had fallen hopelessly in love and she wondered if it was happening to her.
Meanwhile, the Beatles were heading south for their next engagement at the Royal Variety Performance in the presence of the Queen Mother and Princess Margaret.
Sam drove via Kirkby Steepleton on the way back to Ragley and pulled up outside Laurel Cottage. The temperature was below zero when Freddie climbed out of the car, but he didn’t feel it. He kissed Rose one last time and watched the red rear lights disappear into the darkness.
‘He’s back,’ whispered Lily as she climbed back into bed.
‘That’s what your mother used to do,’ murmured Tom sleepily.
‘What do you mean?’
‘You must remember,’ said Tom. ‘When I brought you home she would peep round the curtain.’
‘I’m not like her,’ retorted Lily.
‘Don’t be offended,’ said Tom soothingly.
Lily rested her head on his chest. ‘I’m just concerned about him.’
There was a long silence and the alarm clock ticked on.
Finally Tom said, ‘He’ll be eighteen next year.’
After a while his breathing became slow and steady and soon he had fallen back into a deep sleep.
Lily stared at the moonlight flickering on the ceiling and said quietly, ‘Yes, I know … I know.’
Chapter Six
The End of the World
Jeremy Bear was wearing a black armband.
Prudence Golightly stared up at her dearest friend. She had dressed him in charcoal grey trousers, a crisp white shirt and a black tie. He was sitting on his usual shelf above the counter, but on this dreadful morning his head drooped a little. His glass eyes were clouded as he stared down at the trays of fresh bread, rows of tinned peas and stacks of shoe polish. Prudence knew the world would never be the same again. Even the bell above the door sounded funereal as her first customer arrived.
It was Saturday, 23 November and the villagers of Ragley were waking to harsh frosts that heralded the coming of winter. Beneath a leaden sky and the torn rags of racing clouds, the flag on the church tower was at half mast. In the vicarage Vera Evans had searched out her warmest coat, donned her hat and gloves and set off down the Morton road towards the General Stores & Newsagent.
She had found it hard to sleep. The previous evening was one she would never forget. On BBC television there had been a newsflash. As the luminaries of British broadcasting were at a celebratory dinner, it had fallen to an unfamiliar reporter, John Roberts, to read a bulletin: ‘We regret to announce that President Kennedy is dead.’ The import of the message was clear. He bowed his head and did not look up again.
When Vera approached the counter, Prudence was staring at the front cover of the Daily Express. Her eyes were red with tears. Beneath a photo of a smiling John Kennedy and his wife, Jackie, seconds before that fateful moment, the headline read ‘KENNEDY ASSASSINATED – a sniper’s bullet’. He had been shot once in the back and once in the head.
It was then that Vera did something she had never done before. The usual ‘Good mornings’ were absent. Instead she walked behind the counter, put her arms around the diminutive village newsagent and gave her a hug. They held this pose for a moment, two souls stretched tight in sorrow.
On this bitter morning, when a gauze of mist covered the frozen land like a cloak of sadness, grief had no words. The news had raced around the globe, while in the quiet backwater of Ragley the villagers dealt with it in different ways.
At 7 School View Ruby and her mother were drinking tea in the kitchen. Andy was delivering newspapers and Racquel was looking after the young ones in the lounge.
‘M’plate’s playin’ up again,’ muttered Agnes and she took out her false teeth and swilled them in the sink. As a twenty-first birthday treat, her father had paid for her to have all her teeth removed and replaced by a gleaming false set.
‘It meks a lot o’ sense,’ he had announced with confidence. ‘Saves a load o’ trouble wi’ t’dentist.’
Each night she would put them in a tumbler of water on her chest of drawers. ‘Ah could strangle ’im. Some present that were.’
Ruby had been a child when her grandfather had offered this unusual gift. It was about the time her father, Charlie Bancroft, had run off to live in Birkenhead with a leggy eighteen-year-old who worked in a toffee factory.
Agnes replaced her teeth and sat down again at the kitchen table. She rummaged in her battered handbag, took out a brown envelope and shook her head in disgust. It was her wage packet.
‘Eight pound a week,’ she grumbled, ‘while men get twelve for t’same work.’
‘S’not fair!’ exclaimed Ruby.
Agnes sighed. ‘It’s way o’ t’world, luv. Allus ’as been.’
‘What can y’do, Mam?’
‘Well, that Annabella Outhwaite, her wi’ red ’air an’ that funny ’usband, tried t’speak up on be’alf of all t’girls.’
‘What ’appened?’
‘It came t’nowt an’ she were frightened she’d lose ’er job.’
‘Well it’s up to us t’fight for equal pay,’ said Ruby bravely.
‘It’ll never ’appen, luv,’ said Agnes. ‘We’re treated diff’rent. Ah recall once askin’ for a pint glass o’ beer jus’ for t’devilment of it. T’barman came over all ’oighty toighty an’ said only men can order pints and women can drink ’alves an’ think ’emselves lucky.’
‘Mebbe we can mek things change,’ said Ruby.
‘Them Suffragettes did it,’ said Agnes, ‘but they’re long gone. It�
�s a man’s world an’ we ’ave t’mek best of it.’
They supped their tea while the clock on the window ledge ticked on.
Finally Ruby broke the silence. ‘Ah bet that nice-lookin’ president would o’ changed things if he’d lived.’
Agnes stood up to wash the teacups. ‘Mebbe ’e would, but f’now we ’ave t’face it – we’re jus’ secon’ class citadels.’
‘Y’reight there, Mam.’
Fifty-year-old Annabella Outhwaite was in the local Pharmacy and Herbert Grinchley could see that here was a customer in distress.
‘What’s t’matter, Annabella? Y’don’t look y’self.’
She dabbed her eyes with a lace handkerchief. ‘It’s my Claude. He needs a pick-me-up. That president getting shot was the last straw. He’s gone into his shell and says the world will never be the same again.’
‘An’ ’e’s right,’ said Herbert, ‘but fortunately ah ’ave jus’ the thing.’
Claude Outhwaite was a regular visitor to the Pharmacy and Herbert knew him well. Claude was a local government officer who worked in York’s finance department, and with his black toothbrush moustache he would have won a Hitler look-a-like competition. He worked a thirty-eight-hour week, not a minute more or less. His was a life of precision, repetition and timetables. Each year, for one week in August, Claude and Annabella would visit the same bed-and-breakfast in Morecambe. In his neat collar and tie, checked sports jacket and baggy cricket flannels, he would take in the bracing sea air. It was a relatively cheap B&B, as Claude was careful with his money. Under their brass bedstead was a china chamber pot decorated with pictures of Japanese temples. However, it was only ever used when there was a queue outside the communal bathroom.
Herbert placed a jar of Phyllosan on the counter.
‘This is what ’e needs,’ he said. ‘It’ll supply ’im wi’ essential nutrients, iron an’ Vitamin B.’
Changing Times Page 7
